


No Other Answer

by hermette



Category: Merlin (BBC)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-04
Updated: 2010-03-04
Packaged: 2017-10-07 17:31:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/67488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hermette/pseuds/hermette
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He secretly loves this, when the oppressive heat of it all gets to be too much and Merlin spends half the night sneaking Arthur's wine, and then afterward, when they've supported one another back to Arthur's chambers, and Merlin knows he ought to be apologetic about it, but is too tipsy and loose-limbed to do a proper job of it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Other Answer

He secretly loves this, when the oppressive heat of it all gets to be too much and Merlin spends half the night sneaking Arthur's wine. And then afterward, when they've supported one another back to Arthur's chambers, and Merlin knows he ought to be apologetic about it, but is too tipsy and loose-limbed to do a proper job of it. That's where they are now, closeted away in Arthur's chambers, the windows thrown open optimistically as the feast of Beltane limps to a close downstairs. And Merlin, Merlin who has absolutely no sense of propriety has collapsed into Arthur's chair (Arthur's _royal_ chair) with his neckerchief undone, the pale skin of his throat glistening with sweat.

"You," Arthur says, pointing a finger. "Are drunk."

Merlin hums a little, his head tipped back onto the chair. He looks rosy, almost, with a flush climbing across his collar bones and his lips are stained with wine and parted in a way that Arthur likes. He crosses the room in slow strides until he is stood in front of Merlin, then he leans forward, bracing one hand on either arm of the chair and drags his nose down the bridge of Merlin's. "Drunk," he murmurs, and he can feel the curve of Merlin's smile against his mouth.

"'s hot," is Merlin's reply. His lips catch on Arthur's, and suddenly it's the easiest thing in the world to close that last increment of distance between them and slot their mouths together. Merlin groans into the kiss and maybe Arthur does too, he can't be sure, but once he's kissed Merlin, once he's felt Merlin's hand come up and lazily wrap around his wrist, it's the easiest thing in the world to _keep_ kissing Merlin, to open Merlin's mouth with his own and lick his way in, their tongues a messy wet slide against one another. Merlin's grip loosens; he sides his hand up Arthur's arm, over his elbow, his bicep, his shoulder until he's got his fingers tangled in Arthur's hair. Arthur knows the strands must be clumped together with sweat, but he can't bring himself to care, not when Merlin's hand is sweaty slick as well, hot where it's resting against Arthur's nape and the other hand is plucking at the laces of Arthur's trousers.

"Merlin," Arthur says, half encouragement and half warning.

"'s hot," Merlin repeats, releasing his grip on Arthur's hair to get at his laces with two hands. "You should -- less clothes."

And that's good logic, and Arthur isn't one to argue with good logic, even if he is drunk and the person ordering his around his his servant which -- surely that deserves some sort of punishment. Arthur makes a mental note, which he promptly forgets, and then he pushes himself upright and strips off his clothes a little faster than propriety allows.

"You are--" Merlin says, when Arthur is naked and so clearly _wanting_ before him. "You are so -- Arthur."

"And you," Arthur says, "are in my chair."

Merlin grins, a lazy easy thing. "I like this chair."

"You ought to." Arthur steps forward; Merlin's thighs fall open and Arthur steps in between them, relishing the feel of the fabric of Merlin's shirt against his cock. He feels hot all over, skin stretched too tight, like he could climb out of his own body.

"Not as nice as the throne, though," Merlin says. "Sometimes I think about taking you over it, bending you over it and --"

"_Fuck_." Arthur has to press the heel of his hand against his cock at the thought of that, of how that would look, of how _he_ would look to Merlin like that, held down and stretched open like a common whore. "How drunk are you?"

Merlin grins again. "Not too drunk," he says, and he loosens his own trousers and pulls out his prick. He strokes it twice, eyes fluttering closed as he back arches against the chair, like this is a luxury, to be able to touch himself as he pleases.

"You -- Merlin." Arthur clears his throat to get the roughness out, not that it works. "How does that feel?"

"Good," Merlin replies shamelessly, curling his fingers tighter and thrusting up a little into the circle of his hand. "Been hard all night, hard since I dressed you."

"Merlin--"

"Wanted to touch you. Always want to touch you."

"Touch me then," Arthur says, and he knows it sounds too much like begging to pass it off as anything else, but Merlin is drunk -- they both are -- and at this point Arthur is prepared to make certain allowances. "Touch me, Merlin."

"Touch _me_," Merlin demands and fuck, Arthur _does_, he fucking does, drops to his knees and tangles his fingers with Merlin's, lets himself fall into Merlin's rhythm. After several breathless moments, when all Arthur can focus on is Merlin's silky skin beneath his hand and the short _ah, ah, ah_ of Merlin's exhale, Merlin loosens his grip and Arthur takes over, works Merlin's cock slowly up and down and then back up again. He swipes his thumb over his slit, catches the dribble of precome he finds there and then lifts his hand, offering it to Merlin. In the dying candlelight, Merlin's eyes flash and then abruptly, he reaches down and hauls Arthur into his lap.

It's slick tongues from there, lips catching on teeth, hot breaths shared between their mouths. Merlin's hands are everywhere, fingers digging into his hips, a palm pressed between his shoulder blades, then trailing over his arse, and Arthur is about to pull away and protest, truly he is, when Merlin's fingernail scrapes lightly over his hole and Arthur's entire body _ trembles_.

"Let me have you," Merlin murmurs into his mouth. "Can I? I can, can't I? Say you let me take you. Oh, Arthur, please, I want--"

"Merlin--"

"You'll like it," Merlin says, pulling back just enough to press their foreheads together. Arthur is still shaking all over, and he's vaguely worried that it's excitement, not apprehension. Their cocks are pressed together between their bodies as Arthur crouches awkwardly in his chair. He swallows hard. "I swear you will. It feels so good, Arthur, being fucked like that, being held --"

"Yeah," Arthur is shocked to hear himself say. "Yeah."

And then he finds himself, quite unsure how, face down on his table, arse in the air with Merlin holding him open. He flinches, his mouth falls open, shocked to feel the hot air skating across his exposed hole.

"Arthur--" Merlin groans, but if anything follows, it's lost in the roaring in Arthur's ears as Merlin lowers himself down and closes his mouth over Arthur's hole. Arthur's hands scramble over the table, searching for something to ground him, to keep him from just floating away on the hot night air because however many people Arthur has fucked, however many women he's allowed into his bed, he's never felt anything like this, nothing like the shocking vulnerability of being so exposed, nothing like Merlin's mouth as it moves on him, sucking hungrily. He lifts his head for no reason at all, lets it fall back onto the table with a heavy _thunk_.

And that's good, Arthur thinks, that pain. It's something to focus on besides the way Merlin is moaning into his skin, pulling mouthfuls of flesh in between his teeth and then stabbing his tongue into Arthur's hole, opening him up. _Fuck_, Arthur thinks, and he knocks his head against the table again.

"Hey," Merlin says, and suddenly he's at Arthur's back, draped over him. His shirt is gone, and his skin is damp and too hot against Arthur's own. "Enough of that," he murmurs, licking at the shell of Arthur's ear. A shudder runs through Arthur and he squeezes his eyes closed.

"I can't--"

"You can," Merlin says emphatically. Suddenly there is a finger circling his dripping hole, and though Arthur expected it, he still tenses. Merlin freezes. "Arthur?"

"I don't--" Arthur blows out a shuddery exhale. "Will it hurt?"

Merlin's body relaxes a fraction. "I would never hurt you. Just trust me. Don't you trust me?"

"With my life."

"Then trust me with this."

And there is nothing left for Arthur to say to that, no other answer but to nod his head and force himself to relax as Merlin disappears and then reappears with the peppermint oil Gaius prescribes him for muscle aches. "Let me know if it's too much," Merlin says, and he uncorks the oil. It's cool where it pools on Arthur's back and then runs down his arse, over his hold, down the backs of his legs. A fresh wave of arousal washes over Arthur as the scent hits his nose and he thinks of countless hours in bed, palm slicked with peppermint oil. He realizes then that his erection hasn't flagged at all, that he's still painfully hard and digging into the table.

"Merlin," he exhales, and then there is pressure, then the hint of a burn and then Merlin has one finger inside him, _inside him_, breaching the tight ring of Arthur's arse, and _fuck_, Arthur can hardly breathe around the thought of how that must feel, how hot and tight he must be.

"Next time," he pants, as Merlin twists his finger, "I'm doing this to you."

"Of course," Merlin replies, chuckling darkly against Arthur's ear. "Oh, I have plans."

And it should be laughable, honestly, but Arthur can't exactly reason out why when Merlin pulls back and presses a second finger in along side the first. It burns, of course it does, but beyond that there is an unbearable _rightness_ to it, some sort of simple truth to Merlin possessing him like this, and even beyond that, the horrible, wonderful, terrifying, perfect, perfect, perfect ecstasy of belonging to Merlin in this way. And he wants ... he _wants_...

"Now," he demands, reaching back for Merlin's hand. "Now."

"Arthur, you're not--"

"Now, goddamn you, Merlin, please--"

Merlin's hands span his hips again and Arthur thinks to brace himself, but Merlin pulls him back, back -- Arthur stumbles a bit but Merlin holds him steady as he settles back into Arthur's chair and pulls Arthur into his lap.

"Like this," he says. "So that you can--"

He trails off, but Arthur picks up his meaning. But he doesn't want slow, doesn't want gentle. He wants Merlin, wants him hard and fast, wants to own him and be owned by him, so he reaches back and grips Merlin's slick cock in one hand and braces the other on the arm of the chair and lowers himself down.

Merlin sucks in a breath, they both do and Arthur feels like he could explode at the pressure inside him. It hurts, it bloody well _hurts_, but he lifts up again and brings his hips back down.

"_Arthur_," Merlin groans, his head tipping forward to rest on the back of Arthur's neck. He grinds himself down onto Merlin's cock again and again; Merlin rocks up to meet him and each thrust gets better and better until Arthur is forced to lean forward, brace himself on the table and simply fucking _hold on_ as Merlin fucks up into him, panting into his neck and telling him that he's _so hard for you, Arthur_ and that Arthur is _tight, so tight_ and that he feels _so good, so fucking good_ and that more than anything Merlin wants to _fill you up, Arthur, oh fuck, Arthur_.

He makes a horrible, strangled noise as Merlin brushes something inside him that makes him feel like he's being turned inside out and then he comes without Merlin ever having touched his cock. He comes in a blinding rush of white lights that pop behind his eyelids, blinding him and all he knows is the feeling of Merlin, hot and hard inside him. He feels himself being lifted as Merlin rises from the chair and presses him down on the table, fucks into him hard, harder still and then he stills and releases a shuddering breath.

Eventually, he realizes that he has a rather comfortable bed just a few steps away and he tries to communicate this to a half sleeping Merlin by shoving at him and grunting. Merlin stands up, rubs a hand over the back of his neck and then glances down at his ruined trousers. He grins sleepily down at Arthur, who stands up and rolls his eyes.

"Bed," Arthur says, reaching out and tugging Merlin's trousers down his legs.

Merlin hums his agreement. "Sleep."

"Sleep?" Arthur asks, walking Merlin backward and tumbling him onto the bed. "No. My turn."


End file.
